


Inappropriate Workplace Behaviour (with snacks)

by planet_hopper



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M, Valentine's Day, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24839818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planet_hopper/pseuds/planet_hopper
Summary: The Master's schemes are tamer than usual, the Doctor yearns for another dual-heartbeat (although he will never actually say so) and the Brig deserves a break from these idiots.I don't know why I'm writing Valentines fic now. Just roll with it.
Relationships: Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Inappropriate Workplace Behaviour (with snacks)

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write some angst, but I'm not very good and the laptop agreed by crashing rather spectacularly three times in a row, so here is whatever this is instead.  
> Also, I can't title things.  
> Criticism/suggestions much appreciated!

There's something about today that just gets the Doctor down.

Yates and Benton are off snogging in a cupboard somewhere, the Brig is not breathing down his neck - he is much too engrossed in a bunch of roses sent by Liz, and Jo is on a date with a rather handsome fellow whose name he doesn't care to remember. He has to remind himself that this stupid sentimentality is what had endeared humans to him so much in the first place, but it’s hard when its Valentine's day, and it suddenly seems as though the ones he cares about most are moving in circles of their own, briefly connecting with him and traipsing off while he remains still, tinkering in his lab with only the old girl for company, trying not to listen to the minutes drag by.

He had expected- well, he didn’t know what he had expected, but seeing as a certain someone had been hovering about this planet for the past few months…

That today was a festival of love had nothing to do with it. Another silly human holiday, another day of silence and solitude and science, which he appreciates very much, thank you, but still-

It occurs to him that this is the most alien he's felt in years.

He knows it’s selfish, but he can’t help wishing for some threat to come sweeping in and liven things up.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

The wheezing-groaning of a TARDIS almost makes him cry, for a split second he thinks it is his, miraculously come to life. But no, there’s a large cupboard materializing in a corner of the room and his lips twitch into a grim smile. The Master. Of course.

He ducks behind a table, grabbing a fencing blade that is thankfully within reach and steels himself as the cupboard door swings open. From where he’s crouching, he can only see the Masters’ shoes, shiny and walking soundlessly towards his hiding spot. The shoes stop on the opposite side of the workbench, and the Doctor can hear him fiddling around with his experiments. Fuming, he prepares to spring out and attack, and feels a small prickling on the back of his neck. He looks up to see the Master, socked feet dangling over the side of the table, with a blade of his own and a fantastically smug smile. He’s also wearing a rather lovely black three-piece suit, his beard is immaculate, and is that a hint of kohl around his eyes..? 

The Doctor clears his throat and slowly stands up, letting go of his weapon as he does so. Evil megalomaniac who wants to take over the planet. Right.

Which is when he really notices the Masters’ socks.

They are wonderfully hideous, orange and pink stripes with flashy purple and green triangles. He stares, stifling a laugh.

The Master seems not to notice. “My dear doctor,” he begins, “waiting, a sword in hand to skewer your guests with seems most inhospitable, even for you.”  
“Oh yes,” says the Doctor, rubbing his chin with a wry grin, still focused on the socks, “rather rude of me, I must admit. Unfortunately, it is one of the necessary precautions when dealing with beings of unimaginable evil.”  
Scoffing, the Master gently nudges the Doctor with the blade, making him meet his gaze. “I was only bringing you chocolates, you know.” He hands over a beautifully wrapped box, which the Doctor hesitantly takes.  
He shakes it, flips it over and peers closely at the ribbon, looks shrewdly at the Master and starts to undo the knot.  
“Multi-dimensional knot? A most engaging little puzzle.”  
The box falls apart neatly under his clever fingers.  
“Only for about three seconds, however.” He raises a large, egg-shaped chocolate to his eye level and examines it. “You know, I’ve had a rather beastly day. I hope this is not going to poison me or explode in my face or something similarly dreary.”  
The Master chuckles, lowering his blade, “Not this time. Merely a token of affection to mark this human holiday.” He has the grace to look embarrassed. “An altogether thick species, but they do occasionally come up with a sweet idea.”  
The Doctor raises a suspicious eyebrow. He would hardly associate the word ‘sweet’ with the Master.  
The Master raises an infinitely more eloquent eyebrow back, and the Doctor sighs and takes a bite out of the chocolate.  
He can barely stop himself from spewing it right back out onto the Masters’ innocently puzzled face as the taste of raw yolk floods his mouth. He runs over to the rubbish bin, spits it out, and turns to glare at his old adversary. The Master is still looking innocently puzzled, with a slight tinge of worry on his face, “Doctor? Was it not to your liking?”  
“No, shockingly enough, not really old chap.” He wipes his mouth with a sleeve and looks in dismay at the ruffles which now have streaks of brown on them. Funnily enough, he feels a laugh building in his throat.  
“Oh I do apologize,” says the Master, and the Doctor can’t quite tell whether the man is being sincere or not, “I was under the impression that chocolate-covered eggs were one of the traditional parts of this festival. You’ll have to forgive me, my grasp of late-twentieth century Western human culture is rather tenuous.”  
When the Doctor continues to mock-glare at him and looks as though he’s building up to an angry outburst/righteous speech, the Master smiles and says, “However I am well-versed in the customs of Vael ni Korgrom. I understand that on a first date it is traditional to offer one’s partner some truly grotesque edible as a measure of – mmph”  
The Master cuts off as the Doctor closes the distance between them, pulling him into an insistent kiss that is only slightly marred by the fact that he still tastes of egg. 

Some time later, the Brigadier dashes into the Doctor’s lab (there was a rather urgent report about a five-headed dragon-like creature that had somehow managed to get itself elected to Parliament), and really wants to dash right back out again. The Doctor is clearly having a fine Valentines’ day with someone with a very questionable taste in socks. He would be willing to leave them to it, if he hadn’t had the misfortune of hearing his scientific advisor call out, rather breathlessly, “Oh, Master!”  
He sighs, and clears his throat and waits for the two to disentangle themselves. The Master looks terrified and rather guilty, while the Doctor who should be feeling very ashamed of himself scowls and acts every inch the rebellious teen waiting for his parents to leave his room so he can get back to the pressing matters of figuring out just how to undo another persons’ waistcoat.  
“If you’re not too busy,” the Brig says, sarcasm pooling around each word, “there’s another alien threat that requires your attention. I’m sure that I can escort this one to a cell.”  
The Master, initial panic overcome, scrambles over to his TARDIS, hesitates, scrambles back to pick up his shoes with one hand and the Doctor by the scruff of his coat with the other and dashes behind the safety of the TARDIS doors.  
As the cupboard dematerializes, Alistair hears a faint yell of, “Tell Miss Grant I’ll have him back by nine.” He rubs his eyes, sighs and turns off the lights before leaving the room. If the Doctor isn’t going to take threats to the British government seriously, perhaps Liz Shaw can be persuaded to do so. And perhaps they could discuss the matter over dinner. Candlelit, of course.  
He starts to whistle a merry little tune.

**Author's Note:**

> A little WTNV reference :)


End file.
